Date: Sun, 4 Mar 2007 17:42:29 +1000
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form.
This third day of our January thaw,
into early blooming. Then, the inevitable blizzard
I draw near to one of them, the lowest,
Wind, sleet. The branches sway,
This gap in time, this season not their own,
Against which we have been projected? What . . .
What is there in the depths of these walls
Absurdly, my eyes can only see the arc
It is as though I were at a second threshold.
Or by the loud hand of painting, always puts.
XI. Franklin's Last Voyage
Green lilac buds appear that won't survive
And half-starved foxes shake and paw
How can they get the point of how a world
Would their world not remain comfortably
Traces of those deep cuts lie thickly upon
Upon from the right by far trees, that white place
Only whirled snow heaped up by whirled snow,